


The Emergency Contact and Not John Doe

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Series: Tango Series [4]
Category: 30 Rock
Genre: Banter, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Food, Het, Romantic Comedy, Series, Sex, Television Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The merry-go-round of socialites actually stops. Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Emergency Contact and Not John Doe

Tahini was the next big thing. He had no idea what that thing was, but it was big. She’d been vetted so thoroughly that he could read her inoffensively adorable first grade essays if he wanted, her publicity team could hide bodies, and she even had enough talent to maintain it for longer than six months. Her projected profit margins were enough to make a strong man weak at the knees, and at twenty, she was radiant with the beauty that only plastic surgery and three dedicated fashion technicians could produce.

Jack Donaghy had never been so bored in his life.

“So what’s it like, being the handsomest executive?” Tahini was asking him. “I bet it’s awesome.”

He was failing at the date. Critically failing, because he couldn’t manage anything more than a polite smile and an insincere, “Yes, exceptionally awesome.”

“So, what’s your favorite show on NBC? I like Deal or No Deal. I always thought I could be one of the models on that show,” Tahini said.

“I’m a big fan of TGS with Tracy Jordan,” Jack replied, missing an excellent opportunity to assure Tahini she would make an ideal model for Deal or No Deal and move on from there. “It’s written by Liz Lemon, a very talented writer.”

“Liz Lemon? That’s a funny name,” said Tahini, who was named for a kind of food paste. “I like that show, I guess. It’s a little weird.”

Critical failure. He was supposed to agree about the show and discuss the profitable and strike-resistant Deal or No Deal, which Jack found unspeakably crapulent, down to Howie Mandel’s “edgy” chrome dome, sparkling like the gaudy bracelet on Tahini’s wrist. Instead, Jack wanted to bow out, hie himself to the nearest Dean and DeLuca, and spend the night with the weird writer with the funny name. Possibly eating tahini off her stomach.

“Will you excuse me a moment, Ta?” Jack asked, trying to summon the Donaghy charm. “I need to make a call.”

“Of course,” Tahini said vaguely, trying to smile.

“I told you I wanted smarter than usual,” Jack hissed to Jonathan. “Where did you find this…this…bubble of air?”

“She was the best I could do on short notice!” Jonathan whined. “Would you have preferred Britney?”

“God forbid,” Jack said, completely serious. “I need you to get me out of this, Jonathan. Assure Tahini’s people it’s not her, it’s me. I have a South American parasite, I’m interviewing with News Corp, whatever plausible alibi you can think up in the next five minutes to get me out of here.”

Jonathan dithered as Jack gazed at the willowy, impeccably styled young woman who was sipping expensive champagne and regarding him like he was a god of Olympus. _Zounds, does the child eat anything that isn’t gluten-free, macrobiotic squirrel food?_ his brain asked.

His brain was beginning to sound far too much like one Ms. Elizabeth Lemon.

“Is anything wrong?” Tahini asked when Jack returned to her side, favoring her with a half-smile. “You looked upset.”

“Nothing,” Jack said. “Tell me, Tahini, do they ever have you fill out forms where you designate emergency contacts?”

“Yeah, once or twice,” Tahini said, clearly confused. “Why?”

“Who do you put down?” Jack asked.

“My mom,” Tahini said, reminding him that yes, he was old. “Who do you have down?”

“My personal assistant,” Jack lied casually. “He knows how to contact my mother, attorney, and the relevant parties. Who would you put down if your mother wasn’t convenient?”

“I guess my agent,” Tahini said, picking at her bracelet. “But that feels weird, you know? I think you should pick someone important to be your emergency contact, like your boyfriend or your roommate. They could like, see you dead or something. But I guess if you’re as important as you, Jack, it’s different.”

“Not really,” Jack admitted, putting his hand in his hair.

“Are you okay? Really, it’s okay. You just look really bored and kind of like you have a headache, and now you’re talking about emergency contacts,” Tahini said, shifting uncomfortably. “Also, I’m kind of getting the feeling you’re not as single as your assistant said.”

“No, I’m conducting an affair with my emergency contact, who is not my assistant,” Jack confessed. “However, she is completely unsuitable to take to…where are we, anyway?”

“The Museum of Radio and Television salutes Classic Women of Comedy from Lucille Ball to Carol Burnett,” Tahini said.

Oh. “Actually, this would have been a stunningly appropriate date to take my lady friend on and I’m surprised she’s not here on her own merits,” Jack said. “Jonathan was right; you are smarter than my usual. Tell your people there’s no offense meant, I’m sure you’ll be a smashing success, et cetera.”

“But you want to go hang out with your lady friend,” Tahini said with a cheeky little grin. “I hope she likes you as much as you like her, Mr. Donaghy. Because otherwise, she’s kind of dumb. Like a model.”

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, then swanned away. Jack looked after her, semi-regretful, and then immediately made a dash for the exits. It was Wednesday. Liz hated all the television on Wednesday except for that strange show with Kristin Chenoweth. She would be bored and twitchy and appreciative of the food.

And calculating the ratio of food to erotic reward was already far more diverting than his date with Tahini, and he hadn’t even entered a store yet.

* * *

Darn Museum of Radio and Television, being sold out for the Classic Women of Comedy thing. Double darn them for not knowing who she was and not giving her a comped ticket. Triple darn _Pushing Daisies_ for not being on tonight.

_If you’d asked Jack, he would have gotten you a ticket. A really good ticket,_ her brain pointed out pragmatically. Liz sometimes hated her brain. Sure, Jack would have gotten her a ticket. Maybe lots of tickets. But that would have been using her status as…whatever she was…instead of waiting in line with the rest of the good people.

“How are you and Jack involved? Oh, I’m his emergency contact and sometimes we have sex,” Liz said, looking at herself in the mirror and feeling, well, kind of drab. “Also, he’s my boss, because ethics don’t apply to me.”

And that was when the doorbell buzzed noisily, causing Liz to almost jump out of her skin and wander over to the door, thanking God Pete had _finally_ moved out. Not that she didn’t love Pete, but long talks with herself about Jack were not the kind of thing she wanted Pete eavesdropping on.

Speak of the devil. “I brought Dean and DeLuca,” Jack said. “Let me in, Lemon. I’ve braved the pits of vapidity tonight. Gorgeous, nubile vapidity.”

“Fine, I’ll let you in,” Liz said bemusedly. “But please don’t say the word nubile again.”

He was here. At her apartment. Wearing a tux with an enormous basket of goodies. Liz wasn’t sure which one was sexier.

Of course, the first thing Jack did was drop the food, grab her, and give her one of those looooooong, hot kisses. Somehow, her resolve went from firm to jello the second their lips touched, and by the time Jack came up to say hi and pet her hair, Liz’s resolve had been re-firmed.

Except her firm resolve was now aimed at an entirely different goal, which was getting as naked and sweaty as possible.

“My god, I was almost comatose,” Jack growled. “You have no idea how bored I was. It was like watching Jenna dance, but without the sting of bile in my throat.”

Wow, Jack was a little aggressive tonight with his hands and his mouth. Wow, Liz so didn’t mind. “Where were you?” she asked.

“I didn’t even know,” Jack admitted. “They’re all the same. Same crowd, same bargain-basement sparkling wine, same vapid chatter, same delicate dance of vicious warfare if I happen upon a rival. I threw it over tonight, Elizabeth.”

“To come hang out with me?” Liz asked, suddenly feeling really super fluttery.

“I wanted to feel awake,” Jack said, before going at her throat. “If I spent any more time there, I’d have fallen asleep from sheer inanity.”

“Vapidity,” Liz corrected, fussing at his hair. “You said you were in the pits of gorgeous, nubile vapidity.”

Jack murmured something in Liz’s ear. Something that made the flutters go super-fast and turned her ear hot from the rush of blood.

“Really?” she asked. “You want to do _that?_ Right now?”

In response, he pulled her hips flush against his. “Right now, and until both of us pass out.”

Oh, man. Why was he so good at making her feel like this? And what was “like this?” Besides like the kind of woman who dragged a man toward her bedroom with his untied tuxedo bowtie and really enjoyed it.

Especially when he did that thing where he pulled her leg up to practically his waist like sexy tango dancers did on Dancing With the Stars? And truly, the thing about Jack was that he made Liz feel burning hot sexy, like she was six inches taller and not cursed with the Lemon nose. And not sexy librarian sexy, either. Actual sexy.

It probably didn’t hurt that the Liz Lemon who was having sex with Jack Donaghy was apparently the Liz Lemon who had always secretly dreamed of being a porn star. Seriously. She really had never thought she could bend that far. Or that she’d actually scream so loud that a neighbor banged the wall and told her to shut up, and she was too busy screaming to tell him to fuck off.

* * *

There were of course ground rules to the liaison, ones both explicit and implicit. The explicit rules were quite simple. Lemon had declared awkwardly that he was not allowed to get her pregnant — that, he suspected, had something to do with something either his mother or Bianca had said to her. They had both agreed going public was out of the question.

Implicit in their arrangement was not behaving like people who were in a relationship. Showing up at Lemon’s apartment without calling first after work hours was on the edges of what had been acceptable. Sleeping over had just never happened, because it was not part of their arrangement, either.

But Tahini had been insufferable, and he didn’t really feel like putting the damn tuxedo back on to call a car at the moment. The Dean and DeLuca basket had food he wanted in it, as well. If Jack left it here, he’d never see a crumb of it.

“Go to sleep or go home,” Liz whined suddenly, practically invisible under the blankets, even though her head was on his chest. “We normal people are sleepy.”

“You’ve made a discreet exit difficult,” Jack pointed out.

“Then go to sleep,” she suggested, moving closer. “Jeezum, do my sheets need a higher thread count?”

They did, but he took the point, and it was not entirely unpleasant to have a warm body next to his. As a point of fact, it was especially pleasant that the warm body was hers and not, for example, a superhot but meaningless liaison’s body.

“I came here to stay awake,” he murmured to her hair.

“You also said you wanted to do things with me until we both passed out,” she answered sensibly. “This is the passing out part, because I can’t, um, do any more sex. My lady parts would fall off.”

He chuckled again. “Fine. You win this round,” Jack said. In response, Liz only made a tired, cranky noise, and he adjusted his arm so that it was almost, but not quite, around her waist.

* * *

Her pillows did not usually move so much, Liz thought. Also, her sheets didn’t feel like a big man arm on her waist.

Liz’s eyes flew open. Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, _fuck._

There was a man in her bed. There was a _Jack Donaghy_ in her bed.

Oh, this was very, very bad. Liz had vague memories of being kissed and kissed extensively, a dropped Dean and DeLuca basket that hadn’t even been opened yet, followed by dragging Jack into her bedroom by his bow-tie, followed by him tearing her pj pants off, followed by at least forty-five minutes of moaning, thrusting, biting, and orgasms.

Also licking. Liz remembered a lot of licking.

Followed by lapsing into a semi-coma. Which had been preceded by her…oh, man…telling him to stop moving and stay. To stay in bed with her.

Damn it, he had been warm and she had been sleepy and oh, crap hell damn ass bad sign, she was kind of half-sprawled across Jack.

And she liked it. Even if cuddling was supposedly too inane for her tastes. Whatever. He was all about the cuddling, because he had his arm around her waist, and her arm was sprawled across his chest and they were sleeping together on top of sleeping together.

Oh, why couldn’t he be not Jack Donaghy? Liz would be a lot happier about her predicament if she were sprawled against, oh, John Doe. John Doe coming to her apartment with expensive food and declaring her more interesting than the socialite-go-round would deserve to stay in her bed. More than deserve. She’d be bragging her head off to everyone, and by everyone she meant Jenna.

If she weren’t sprawled against Jack, Liz would be doing a lot of things differently, but the nagging voice in her head pointed out that she wouldn’t be sprawled out against John Doe, because he’d be too perfect/imperfect in another way that would have prevented it from getting this far. It was Jack’s intensely annoying self that had allowed him to sneak past her guard, because Liz prided herself on being too good to be taken in by a sexist elitist corporate suit like Jack Donaghy.

“Flarg,” Liz muttered. Did she actually like Jack?

“Go back to sleep,” Jack replied. “I can actually feel your frown lines moving. They tickle.”

Liz kicked him slightly and dug in deeper. “Suffer,” she said mercilessly. “That’s what happens when you don’t use Botox. Your face moves.”

“Elizabeth, the only reason civilized people wake each other in the middle of night is for emergencies or to resume things that you told me you couldn’t handle any, due to the chance that your quote unquote lady parts might fall off,” Jack said. “Is there an emergency?”

“No,” Liz said. Well, there wasn’t. Middle of the night soul crises weren’t _emergencies._ Especially if they were playing by Jack-and-Liz rules, where emergencies meant blood, ambulances, or acts of Tracy Jordan.

“Then I assume you and I are going back to sleep,” he said.

“Maybe it’s the other option. Maybe being all pressed up against your quote unquote middle-aged spread has me rip-roaring to go, ever think of that?” Liz snarked.

“Oh, really?” Jack inquired.

Actually, she’d only been half-joking.

“Yeah,” Liz said. “Really.”

If he could go again, she could go again.

“Well, then,” Jack said. “That’s different.”

Actually, she was trying to jump him.

“That’s what your mom said,” Liz replied, kissing him on the nose.

Didn’t mean she had to stop being herself.


End file.
